


The Unexpected Third

by obscure_affection



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Fem!Sherlock, Femslash, Lesbian Character, Smut, Swearing, basically johnlock but with sexy lesbians, fem!lock, moriarty turns up but he is very different to the bbc version, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obscure_affection/pseuds/obscure_affection
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Knowing is not the same as acting, not the same as being or doing. Jo knows why Sherlocks eyes linger on her now, but she cannot decide what to do about it.'</p><p>A fem!lock reworking of TBB to TGG including smutty smut and romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unexpected Third

It wasn’t until the third time that Jo realised there had been a first and second time.

The third time was right at the conclusion of the Blind Banker case, somewhere between being kidnapped during the night and waking up the next morning. Some time in those chaotic hours, the curtain had been pulled aside from the stage of her subconscious, and Jo had found herself under the spotlight, awaiting action.

The scrape with death had made her hyper-aweare, unable to overlook even the smallest of details. It was like being Sherlock, perhaps, Jo thought; feeling the individual fibres of her cotton jumper against her skin, noting the smallest alteration in the faces of those around her.

Again and again the click of the empty gun echoed through her mind. Now that she was safe she wanted desperately to laugh, but-

Sarah- sweet caring Sarah, who’d never seen a gun before in her life- had been crying and shaking as Sherlock soothed. A soothing Sherlock was almost as strange as being kidnapped by a smuggling ring in the middle of London. Jo found herself stilling as she watched them, the click of the gun forgotten.

Quick gloved hands pulled, pulled at the ropes. They’d used thick ropes, and Jo privately wished they’d used metal or plastic instead. In struggling, Sarah had achieved nothing other than a deep, raw rope burn. Infection was likely, blisters certain. Metal would have been kinder.

‘You are _fine_ , really,’ Sherlock said, her normally cutting voice rounded at the edges. ‘You’re going to be fine. Just a few blisters, probably, and I’ve located the pin they wanted as well, it was right under our noses the whole time, actually, see-‘

‘Not right now, Sherlock,’ Jo hissed. ‘Tell me later.’

Sarah glanced up at Jo, and then away again. Her eyes were afraid, almost hateful. Too late, Jo realised that she wasn’t reacting the way she ought to be. She should be crying a little, or shaking, not repressing a grin. Her voice was as steady as her hands, and she sounded proud of Sherlock, not angry at her. All wrong. Where was the shock, the fear? Jo had outed herself as a danger junkie at the worst of all possible times.

Once Sarah was free, she curled up into a ball. The gorgeous long hair Jo had so admired was now obscuring her tear-swollen face, and Jo wasn’t sorry for it. The accusation in her eyes had been unpleasant.

Sherlock turned away from Sarah towards Jo, and the gentle expression on her face vanished at once. Her lips curled into a manic grin that Jo returned without thinking. In the half-light Sherlock looked look like an open flame, her eyes dark. Her blood-tipped gloves moved smoothly against the ropes holding Jo in place, and Jo did not flinch away from the warm leather of her touch.

‘Happy to see me?’ Sherlock asked, low enough that Sarah wouldn’t hear.

‘You’ve got no idea,’ Jo insisted, and laughed. _‘No idea.’_

‘Best date ever,’ Sherlock said, winking, and Jo laughed again, but louder this time, forgetting Sarah. And it was hard to remember Sarah, when Sherlock was kneeling by her knees, working at the ropes around her ankles. Whenever she worked at knots, or locks, Sherlock would poke the tip of her tongue out between her lips. Jo was mesmerised now, seeing Sherlock kneeling at her feet, the wet tip of her tongue pressed against her full lower lip.

The knot fell open, and Jo exhaled loudly, Sherlock pulling away and standing up. She could already feel the blood rushing back into her hands and feet, the tingling almost beyond endurance. Judging by the way Sarah was massaging her fingertips, she was feeling it too.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Sherlock said. ‘I’ve got no idea how big this operation is, though I do have a vague idea as to who started it. But we can’t linger, just in case. Can you both walk?’

Jo pressed her fingers into the open wound just above her ear. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, and it wasn’t deep. She nodded, but Sherlock didn’t notice, too distracted by the loud sniffing noise Sarah was making. ‘Sarah?’

‘I can walk. My feet are still a bit numb, but I can do it.’

‘Good.’

In single file (Sherlock leading, Jo bringing up the rear) they made their way out of the tunnels. Sarah was no longer sniffing, but had not spoken a word to either of them, and was limping slightly.

It wasn’t until they were free from the tunnels, and in the relative light and safety of London again, that Jo realised how strangely Sherlock was acting. She’d assumed her unusual silence was due to Sarah, but now, she wasn’t so sure. Sarah was shaken but walking, though probably because she wanted to get as far away from the both of them as fast as possible. Meanwhile Sherlock was silent, twisting her fingers, and throwing curious glances towards Jo at odd moments.

So far, the unreadable expressions Sherlock was now passing her way had been the oddest, and most unsettling part of the night.

They walked Sarah back to her flat, apologising profusely, reminding her to care for her injuries, and giving her some tips on how to safe-guard her flat so she’d feel secure during the night. She nodded, smiled without feeling, and locked the door very loudly on them.

For a few seconds (but no longer than that) Jo let herself mourn the early death of their potential relationship, and probably their friendship. Sarah lived in a house with glossy green bushes planted under polished windows. If Jo didn’t have Backer Street… but she did, and she would not have it otherwise.

Sherlock tossed her another look, as they passed under a streetlight down the road from Sarahs. It was the ninth look in twelve minutes.

‘You’re acing weird,’ Jo told Sherlock, frowning at her. ‘More than usual, anyway. You should be boasting now, running to the Yard and shoving your brain in Dimmocks face.’

‘I’ll get to it,’ Sherlock assured. ‘Just give me a minute.’

‘You’ve never needed a minute before.’

Sherlock turned and gave John a very serious look. They’d stopped together under the streetlight, but Sherlocks eyes were as dark as they’d been in the tunnels. Her pupils were blown, Jo realised.

‘You’ve never been kidnapped before,’ Sherlock said, voice low. ‘It was my fault-‘

‘No,’ Jo said, but Sherlock didn’t let her finish.

‘Yes, it was. If I’d worked it out faster, if I hadn’t let myself be distracted by- well, be distracted at all, I could’ve saved you both the whole ordeal.’

‘It was only an _ordeal_ for Sarah,’ Jo said, shrugging. ‘You know what I’m like. Thats why you put up with me.’

Sherlock flushed, eyes darting away from Jo and then back again. Arousal, Jo realised, and in the very same moment she realised that no, this wasn’t the first time she’d seen that expression on Sherlocks face.

The very night they’d met, when she’d shot the cabbie and saved Sherlocks life, they’d gotten Chinese together and Sherlock had predicted all the fortune cookies. The table had been small, and Jos chair had been lopsided. She’d pressed her calf against Sherlocks to balance herself at the table, and had wondered why Sherlock had been having such trouble maintaining eye contact.

At the time Jo had thought nothing of pressing her leg against Sherlocks. From ankle to knee they had been touching, which was almost nothing by Jos standards. She hadn’t known Sherlock very well by that point; hadn’t known it was unusual for Sherlock to be jumpy.

And the second time- how could she have been so stupid? Sherlock had taken Jos face in her hands, pulling her close. For one mad second Jo had thought she was about to have her brain sucked out through her mouth, but instead Sherlock had rotated them on the spot, trying to make her remember the paintings. Pointless, as Jo had taken a photo. But Sherlocks hands had lingered in her hair, her eyes had flicked towards Jos mouth one time too many. Sherlock had let her guard down in her desperation to make Jo remember.

‘I do a bit more than put up with you,’ Sherlock says, interrupting Jos trip down memory lane.

Jo has no idea what to say, but opens her mouth anyway, needing to tell Sherlock that she understands, now, that she’s worked it out- but Sherlocks phone rings, and the moment is broken. Shan has been found dead.

~

It seems horribly obvious now, to Jo. The curtain has been drawn aside, and she feels naked upon the stage, wishing she’d been given a script. Knowing is not the same as acting, not the same as being or doing. Jo _knows_ why Sherlocks eyes linger on her now, but she cannot decide what to _do_ about it.

If it had been Sarah it would have been so simple. The flirting then was easy, a natural extension of the attraction towards each other that’d been so swiftly and easily recognised. With Sherlock, Jo did not know how to act. With Sherlock, there was already too much at stake.

Despite having many friends throughout her life, Jo had never had a friend like Sherlock. Most of her friends (most people, in fact) understood the unspoken boundaries that existed between people. Sherlock did not. She saw no difference between making Jo pick up her phone, Jo shooting a criminal for her, complaining about Doctor Who while Jo tried to watch it, and Jo stitching her together after a chase that ended badly.

Even before Jo had recognised the lust in Sherlocks eyes, she had known they were far from typical even in their friendship. She deserted promising dates and a boring future for Sherlock, and in return Sherlock took away her tremor and her limp and gave her the battlefield.

There was so much at stake.

Once, somebody had tried to knife Sherlock in the chest, and the cut had required stitches. Sherlock had refused to go to hospital, instead pulling her shirt up over the wound with one hand while the other texted. Annoyed but resigned, Jo had cleaned and closed the cut, not expecting any thanks.

‘See?’ Sherlock had said, looking down once Jo had finished. ‘This is why I trust you more than a hospital. Excellent. Now, if the murderer…’

Jo hadn’t been able to forget the praise, or the idea that Sherlock trusted her. It occurred to her that once, Sherlock would have stitched herself up, doing a clumsy job in bad lighting somewhere. But now Sherlock had someone she trusted to pull the jagged pieces of her pale skin together again. Jo knew that she wouldn’t risk loosing that trust for the world.

~

Jo washed her head wound while she was in the shower, and took the rare opportunity away from Sherlocks general scrutiny to investigate the state of her body as a whole. The cut wasn’t deep, and did little to alter her shaggy blonde hair. More concerning to Jo was the fat deposits at her upper thighs and lower stomach. Though she was pleased to see that most of her body retained the muscle she had spent years building up. Short she was, but slim she would never be; most called her tough.

Would Sherlock find her attractive, though? Maybe Sherlock liked girls who were soft, like Sarah, or tall girls like Sally. For all Jo knew, Sherlock liked much older men with ginger beards. Jo took each of her breasts in hand, trying to imagine how they would feel to Sherlock, with longer fingers. At once she found herself distracted, her hands lowering to caress her stomach-

‘When you’ve finished admiring yourself, come out here so I can run a theory by you.’

Jo shrieked, but half-way through it became swearing. Was nowhere private? Blushing furiously, she stuck her head out around the shower curtain, ready to tell Sherlock exactly where to stick her theory.

But Sherlock was not looking at her. She was, in fact, staring very hard at her own left foot, and seemed to have gone very pink in the face. At once Jo bit back her harsher words. Sherlock, blushing and squirming-

‘Uh, the theory?’

‘Moriarty.’

‘The cabbie person?’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock said, still addressing her foot instead of Jo. ‘The little correspondence they found of Chans seems to have come from a person called M.’

‘That could be anyone,’ Jo pointed out, at the same time wondering why this conversation had to happen while she was naked. ‘Couldn’t it?’

‘Perhaps.’

An awkward silence fell. Jo waited for Sherlock to brake it (if Sherlock was good at doing anything, it was breaking things) but no word came. She seemed deeply entranced by her own foot, and only the high colour in her cheekbones betrayed her.

‘I wasn’t, by the way,’ Jo felt herself say.

Surprised out of her contemplation, Sherlock looked up, then hastily back down at finding Jo still naked and dripping.

‘Wasn’t…?’

‘Admiring myself. How long were you standing there, anyway?’

‘Less than a second.’

‘I’m sure,’ Jo grinned. ‘Maybe you were the one doing the admiring, huh?’

She hadn’t meant it to sound like that. Even as the words left her mouth Jo felt her ears go red, furious at herself for not having enough sense to think through her jokes. But it still might have been laughed off, if not for Sherlocks reaction: she squeaked as if caught, then spun on the spot, facing Jo but her eyes now on the ceiling. Her face had gone tomato red, and Jo felt her heart clench.

‘Sherlock…’

‘Don’t.’ Sherlock snapped, her hands bunched into fists. ‘Just because I, because I was…’

‘It’s ok if you were checking me out,’ Jo said, ignoring Sherlocks flinch at her frankness. ‘I’ve done the same to you, you know.’

That got Sherlocks attention. Her head snapped down, her attention now wholly on Jo, despite the fact that every second turned her normally pallid face a brighter shade of scarlet.

‘You…’

‘I checked you out, yes. Might even be now, for all you know.’

‘But you were on a date with Sarah not ten minutes ago!’

Exasperated, Jo threw one hand into the air whilst also trying to maintain some modesty.

‘You said it wasn’t your area! Or wasn’t that the truth?’

‘It normally is the truth,’ Sherlock said, teeth gritted. ‘There has only ever been one, or two, so I just…’

‘Assumed I wouldn’t be number three.’

Sherlock nodded, but seemed to have nothing more to say. Which left them, Jo realised, in the bathroom together, looking at each other at last, and she was already naked. As if struck by the same thought, Sherlock hesitated. Her eyes, which had been carefully fixed on Jos face, jumped downwards and then up again.

Jo smiled, lowering the shower curtain a little so her collarbone was exposed. At once, Sherlocks eyes went for her scar tissue. She seemed unable to look away. They hadn’t even touched, and already Jo could feel the start of a powerful ache between her legs.

‘Sherlock? If you wanted to, you know, we could…’

Jo looked down at herself, and then up at Sherlock, a blatantly obvious invitation. A small part of her was mourning the fact that this wasn’t happening somewhere more comfortable like a bed. Most of her was too horny to care.

‘Really? You don’t think I’m…?’

‘What?’

For a second Sherlock was lost in contemplation, as if trying to pick out which word would do. It occurred to Jo (not for the first time) that somebody like Sherlock would have always been called _‘too something’_ or else _‘not something enough’_ during her life. She wondered which _something_ it would be that Sherlock used now.

‘Don’t you think I’m not your type?’

‘That is actually the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Now get in here,’ Jo said, and oh, Sherlock did.

Mind made up, Sherlock made short work of her clothing. As far as strip teases went it was neither elaborate nor slow nor romantic. Each item was taken off with maximum efficiency (shoes first, buttons fast) but Jo still found in arousing. Just the idea of Sherlock, undressing, for her, wanting to be naked (and fast!) for her…

Sherlock unpinned her bra and tossed it aside. Its underwire had left thin pink lines on her skin, and her small breasts swelled slightly once freed from their cotton prison. She pulled off her undies, tossing them away as well, and then bent to peel off her socks. In doing so, Jo saw the curved ridge of her spine arch up through her skin.

Straightening, Sherlock gave Jo a moment just to look at her, as if worried that once viewed naked she would be rejected. Though a greedy part of her wanted nothing more than to drink in the rosy colour of Sherlocks nipples and the keen edge of her hipbones as they lead into her thicket of dark hair, Jo sensed that prolonged observation might make Sherlock uncomfortable. Pushing that irony aside, she beckoned with one finger, and Sherlock stepped forward into the shower at once.

She still seemed hesitant though. Jo took Sherlocks hands in her own, closing her warm fingers over Sherlocks longer ones. It seemed laughably innocent to hold hands, but it had clearly been the right thing to do, as some of the tension leaked from Sherlocks shoulders at once.

‘I wasn’t admiring myself,’ Jo repeated. ‘I was trying to imagine what I’d feel like to you.’

Slowly she brought Sherlocks hands up, and pressed them over her own breasts. She inhaled, letting her flesh expand under Sherlocks palms, her nipples hardening almost at once. Sherlock took two small steps forward, until she was close enough to kiss Jo, if she wanted. But she didn’t move.

Her fingers instead grasped more firmly around Jos breasts, exploring the full softness of her bosom in comparison to the hardened peak of her nipple. Jo wanted to close her eyes, but dared not to. The idea of missing the expression on Sherlocks face was awful. Her eyes were wide and dark, simultaneously greedy and awed.

Sherlock squeezed her, half-experimentally and half-playfully, and Jo grinned. Standing on tiptoe, eyes open, she leaned forwards until her lips were pressed against Sherlocks. They were both silent, listening to the sound of their own breathing and the fall of the water. For long seconds neither of them moved, and Jo relished the chance to memorise the surprise in Sherlocks face, and the exact feel of her cupids bow against her own open mouth.

‘I’m going to kiss you now,’ Jo said, surprised at how low her voice had become. ‘And you’re going to like it.’

‘Am I?’ Sherlock asked, trying for a superior and disinterested tone and failing as her voice caught painfully.

‘Yes.’

Chaste, at first, a swift peck of lips on lips, followed by a longer kiss, so that both of them could learn the shape and pressure at the meeting of their mouths. Jo pulled away only for a second, only far enough to better her angle, and moved in again. She kissed Sherlocks bottom lip, kissed her top lip, watched Sherlocks eyes flutter closed for a moment as she kissed them both.

The kiss deepened, though Jo wasn’t sure how; like the best of kisses it seemed to move from one point to the next without much conscious thought. Sherlocks mouth opened for her, and at first the touch of their tongues was shy, with Sherlock retreating more than once. Jo reached to steady herself (standing on tiptoe in a wet shower was hardly safe) and placed her hands on Sherlocks waist, brining their bodies closer together. Sherlocks arms were pressed between them now, as she clearly had no intention of moving her hands from Jos breasts.

When Sherlock found the courage (and more importantly, the right angle) to deepen the kiss, she did so right away. Jo felt her spine melt, and she leant further into Sherlock for support. Her tongue was sometimes pressed against Jos own, sliding, the texture sending them both mad with want, and other times Sherlock would flick the pointed tip against the roof of Jos mouth, hitting ticklish spots. It was one of the stranger kisses Jo had ever received, but she wasn’t complaining.

Neither would she be outdone. Jo dragged her tongue so that Sherlock could feel every inch of it running past her. At once Sherlock shivered against her, and Jo took the chance to lean away and bite Sherlocks bottom lip, pulling it slightly between her teeth. Sherlock hissed, eyes flying open, and Jo released her at once.

‘You were right,’ Sherlock said, ‘I am liking it.’

They backed into the wall, Sherlocks hands leaving Jos chest to grab onto her arse. Surprised but pleased, Jo let a low groan out from her chest. She had Sherlock pressed into the tiles now, her dark hair beginning to drip with moisture. Jo kissed Sherlock again, delighting in how swiftly they had learned to accommodate each other.

Her hands slid up Sherlocks waist, running over slightly protruding ribs, until her hands found Sherlocks own smaller breasts. They were round enough for her to hold without discomfort, small enough not to spill between her fingers. Finding Sherlocks nipples soft, Jo ran her fingers round and round, feeling them harden to sensitive points beneath her. Sherlock was panting into her now, her back arched off the tiles, pressing into Jos hands.

Acting on instinct and impulse and lust, Jo broke the kiss and lowered her head to Sherlocks nipples. She took one in her mouth, consuming it, and Sherlock swore breathlessly. Slowly, Jo ran the entire length of her tongue over Sherlocks nipple, smiling as Sherlock squirmed.

‘That was only a taste of what my tongue can do,’ Jo said, pulling away from Sherlocks right nipple to move onto the left. ‘Would you like to see some more?’

‘Oh- god- yes-‘

There was a small shelf in the corner, where the shampoo bottles stood. Jo shoved them all to the floor with one quick swipe from her hand, and hardly heard them clanging and bouncing, so focused on the sight of Sherlock sitting down, her head thrown back against the wall, exposing the long line of her neck.

Jo kissed her jaw, licked a straining tendon down from Sherlocks ear to collarbone, sucked again at her oversensitive nipples. She moved lower, letting her lips press kisses at random over Sherlocks rips, then her stomach. Skinny, Jo thought, but the word dissipated, because Sherlock was moaning her name. Jo kissed her naval, and ran her permanently short nails down Sherlocks sides, making her back arch.

Sherlocks hands found their way onto Jos head, her nails scraping the sensitive skin behind her ears. It seemed all Sherlocks initial shyness had fled; she was now half-pushing Jo downwards.

Carefully distributing her weight from knee to ankle, Jo sat herself on the wet floor. The water was beating against the small of her back now. Gently, she took each of Sherlocks legs in hand, under the knee, and guided them until they were draped over her shoulders. Sherlock had her eyes closed, and her face turned to the side as if embarrassed; her chest was rising and falling swiftly already, as if just being so utterly exposed was almost too much for her already.

Taking her time, relishing every moment, Jo kissed from the inside of Sherlocks thigh upwards, repeating the action on both legs. She did not touch where Sherlock so desperately wanted to touch. Not yet.

‘Jo, please-‘

She placed her hands over Sherlocks hipbones, holding her in place a little. Jo could feel her muscles shivering in anticipation. Teasing no longer, she pressed her tongue against Sherlock, slowly, slowly licking up to her clit, but stopping before she reached it. Above her, Sherlock let out a tiny noise.

Encouraged, Jo did the same thing thrice more, moving slowly enough to note the places that made Sherlock twist under her. Her hair was no impediment, and Jo found herself so absorbed in Sherlocks noises and twists that she hardly noticed it.

The thick taste of Sherlock on her tongue was sending hot bolts of lust down through Jos stomach, towards her own neglected arousal. Sherlocks fingers tightened in her hair almost painfully. Jo took the hint, sliding her tounge up alongside the delicate fold of Sherlock inner labia, feeling her entire body shudder in approval. She could either move up or down from here…

Jo chose down, extending her tongue so that it probed for Sherlocks opening. The angle made her neck ache, but not so badly yet that she couldn’t go on. As if reading her mind, Sherlock lifted her hips a little, easing her way. Now gripping her hipbones tightly, Jo slid as much of her tongue as she could into Sherlock, essentially fucking her with her mouth. Sherlock moaned loudly, her hips jumping, though not dislodging Jos hands or face.

Jo pressed herself inwards as Sherlock pressed herself forward, setting up a rhythm quickly. With her face now very much crammed as close to Sherlocks body as it could get, Jo was near overwhelmed by the input she was receiving. Sherlock was everything. The weight on her shoulders, the pleasurable pull of her hair, the taste in her mouth, the heady smell in her nostrils, the skin and bone under her fingers, the gasping moans she could hear over the water.

It wouldn’t do, though, Jo realised. Despite the shocking intimacy of it, she wanted more. She wanted to overwhelm Sherlock in as many ways as she could. A great mind needs great distractions, after all.

She removed one hand from Sherlocks hip, carefully running her fingers over each other to check for any hangnails. Picking her pointer finger as the smoothest, she slid her hand up Sherlocks thigh till it came to rest beside her face.

Slowly, she extracted her tongue, and at the same time slid her finger deep within Sherlock. A loud, approving keen came from above her, and Jo grinned. Not leaving Sherlock empty or unstimulated for a moment, Jo moved her mouth up to cover Sherlocks clit, even as she started to press her finger deeper, each knuckle slowly vanishing into her.

‘Oh, fucking hell- god, fuck, Jo, oh fuck-‘

Carefully coordinating her actions, Jo gently fucked Sherlock with her finger at the same time as her mouth, still hot over Sherlocks clit, started to work. Jo pressed down from above, providing Sherlock with heat and pressure simultaneously. In response, Sherlocks hips began to thrust in earnest, each movement bringing Jos finger deeper and her tongue down harder.

‘Jo- I’m- Jo, oh-‘

Jo hummed, the minute vibrations moving through her lips and tongue and therefore on Sherlocks clit. She moaned, high and breathy, clenching hard around Jos finger now. Knowing she was close, Jo prepared herself to hold on, and to let nothing dislodge her from Sherlock, or the brilliance of the moment.

With a noise of pleasure that was neither a moan, word, groan or sigh, Sherlock pressed her thrusting hips upwards, her legs shivering and her cunt clenching almost painfully around Jos finger. Hearing Sherlock come undone was exquisite, and Jo glanced upwards in time to see her eyes wild yet dazed, her mouth open in some silent noise of approval. She kept humming until the last tremors faded from Sherlocks body.

Pulling away slowly, knowing Sherlock was likely to be either sore or sensitive or both, Jo became aware again of her own unsatisfied lust. The desire to touch herself, roughly and thoroughly, was almost overwhelming. Splayed out before her, boneless as an octopus, Sherlock let out a shaky laugh.

‘That was amazing.’

‘You really think so?’ Jo asked, wiping her mouth.

‘Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary.’

They beamed at each other, and Jo repressed manic giggles with extreme difficulty.

‘I’m no amateur,’ she said, and Sherlock snorted, still smiling.

‘That you are not. You have to teach me.’

‘Really?’ Jo said, a plan unfolding in her mind. ‘You want to learn?’

_‘Yes.’_

‘Now?’

_‘Yes.’_

‘Good,’ Jo said, standing up and hearing her knees crack. ‘Because I think we should start right now. Come on. My room.’

~

‘Sherlock?’

Sherlocks door slammed open, revealing Sherlock in all her morning glory: tangled hair oily at the roots, a pout on her lips, pyjamas hanging off her lanky frame and tell-tale stain on her crotch.

‘I need tea and a hot water bottle,’ Sherlock announced, her tone demanding despite the fact she was rubbing sleep out of her eyes like a small child.

‘Whats the magic word?’

‘Hurry.’

Jo rolled her eyes but complied, knowing better than to reprimand Sherlock on her first day of the cycle. She didn’t have to look to know that Sherlock would have already moved to the couch, where she would curl up in the foetal position.

It’d been roughly a month since the shower incident, and Sherlock had taken the opportunity to turn her bedroom into a laboratory. This pleased Jo immensely, as there were now significantly fewer body parts in the fridge. They’d considered using Jos room as the lab, but in the end they had decided that they’d prefer their shared bedroom to be upstairs and away from any perspective clients.

Once both tea and bottle were ready, Jo delivered them to Sherlock, who grunted a thanks. She hadn’t come to bed last night, having been too caught up in trying to melt and shatter various types of human bones with various types of weapons.

 

‘Experiment go well?’ Jo asked, turning on the TV and wondering which channel would annoy Sherlock least.

‘Moderately.’

‘And your stomach?’

‘Hateful.’

Jo winced in sympathy, sitting herself behind Sherlocks head. It was hard to remember that periods were a natural part of life when Sherlock went through them; she complained so bitterly, and often became so pale, that the doctor in Jo was constantly on alert. Feeling warmth rush up into her stomach, Jo pulled Sherlocks head onto her lap and began to pet it.

‘My hair is oily.’

‘It’s not so bad.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Ok, yes it is,’ Jo admitted. ‘But I don’t mind. I’ll wash my hands after.’

Sherlock scrunched up her nose but made no further comment. Half an hour later she was asleep.

~

Sometimes, when Jo opened her laptop, she found that Sherlock had been using it. Most of the time she was searching for obscure brands of clothing, or updates in the roadworks. Other times Sherlock had been trying to hunt down Moriarty.

The name had taken on an ominous significance in 221b. Now every case they went to was double checked in case any sign of the elusive M could be found. More often than not, there was something. But occasionally, Sherlock would become convinced that some small detail was a remnant of the work of Moriarty. Then Sherlock would become hard to deal with.

Faced with a brick wall, Sherlock did not back off or consider asking for help. She would stay up for nights on end, throwing herself at the unsolvable problem, until another case came along to distract her. It was driving Jo insane with worry.

‘If there was only some way I could contact them!’ Sherlock would say, pacing the bedroom at three in the morning. ‘More and more, they turn up, in the little details that shouldn’t exist. If I could just get their attention somehow…’

‘Do you actually want to draw attention to yourself?’ Jo grumbled. ‘Sounds stupidly dangerous to me.’

‘We have to stop them.’

‘Pah. You just want to work out how they’ve been doing it. You hate unsolved puzzles. Don’t pretend you’re doing humanity a service.’

Sherlock snorted, her hands buried deep in her hair. In the half-light, she seemed ghostly, her cheekbones standing out harshly against her face. Jo could vividly imagine the shape of her skull.

‘Would you help me?’ Sherlock asked now, whirling to turn and face Jo. ‘It might be dangerous.’

‘Well in that case, sign me up,’ Jo said, sitting up at last and giving up any hope of sleep. ‘I always help you. As long as the plan isn’t actually going to kill us. So whats the idea?’

Sherlock leaped into the air, landing on the edge of the bed. Standing over Jo she seemed very tall and very dark. Her blue-grey eyes flashed, and Jo thought she could almost see the gleam of Sherlocks grin.

‘Leave it to me,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a plan.’

~

Just because you knew you were going to be kidnapped didn’t mean that Jo enjoyed it. The pain of the dart in her neck was unwelcome, and so was the deep black that followed it. Her last thought was that she was glad the dart had hit her in the neck, and no somewhere more awkward like the ear.

Waking slowly, her elbows and knees hurting from where they must have smashed into the concrete, Jo took stock of her surroundings. Her hands were bound, though with plastic this time, and her eyes had been covered with something. On either side of her a larger body sat, swaying with the movement of the van.

So far so good. She had not been raped or beaten or killed, and they seemed to be driving her. Probably towards the place Sherlock had requested, but that was currently impossible to tell with her eyes covered.

Jo didn’t actually know where Sherlock had asked to meet Moriarty, though she knew it was within London. Sherlock had insisted that the less she knew, the more realistic her performance would be.

‘Wake up Joanna,’ a soft voice said, making her jump. ‘No point pretending.’

A large but oddly soft hand came out of the darkness and cupped her face. The voice was male, slightly Irish, and with a warm intimacy that made Jo flinch. Furthermore she generally disliked strangers calling her by her full name.

‘Do you know where we are, Joanna?’

She shook her head.

‘We’re going to the pool where Carl Powers died. Do you remember Carl Powers? No? I didn’t think you would. Tragic accident. Had a fit during his school swimming carnival and drowned. Very sad. He was such a bully, though, very mean to the smaller boys. Nobody cared as long as he swam fast. And I was a very small boy back then. Only one person in the whole wide world thought there was anything funny about his death. This tiny little girl. Five years old, can you believe it? Sherlock. Funny name. She came to the school, all on her own, started asking people about Carls stolen shoes. Naturally everyone thought she was crazy, and they called her parents, had her taken home. But I knew, then, that I would meet up with pretty little Sherlock again. I even brought Carls shoes for you to wear, in honour of our meeting.’

And indeed he had. Despite kicking and squirming, Jos shoes were pulled off, and a large uncomfortable pair forced over her feet instead. She was wearing a dead childs shoes, Jo realised, and tried again to kick. Strong hands came down on both her thighs and held her in place.

‘Sherlock asked me to meet up with her today. Did you know?’

Jo shook her head again, slowly.

‘Didn’t think so. And why would she tell you, anyway?’

Moriarty laughed, and the van came to a stop. The strong hands moved from her thighs to her shoulders, pulling her up and out of the door. Already she could smell the pool water. She wondered what time it was, and if Sherlock had arrived already or not.

By her head, the sound of a gun clicking grounded her to the spot.

‘I’m going to untie your hands, and give you a special kind of jacket to put on,’ Moriarty said. ‘Ok? And if you cause any trouble, we will shoot you.’

Jo nodded, and didn’t move an inch once her hands were free. A heavy, bulky kind of vest was slung awkwardly over her chest. Despite tilting her head from side to side, she couldn’t get a glimpse of it from under the blindfold.

‘I wouldn’t fidget too much,’ Moriarty said, casually. ‘Its slightly explosive, you might say.’

Jo stilled again, mentally cursing Sherlock for putting her in such a fucked up situation. Then without warning, the blindfold was torn from her eyes, and she was at last able to see both her vest and the man who’d put her in it.

To her surprise, Moriarty was hardly taller than her, young and well dressed, with attractive yet unremarkable features. Only his eyes gave anything away. They were dark, and seemed to glitter with the kind of black delight Sherlock only mimicked. And as promised, the vest turned out to be made of explosives.

‘Let the games begin!’ Morarity said, and pushed her in front of him as he entered the pool. It was a large empty space, with blue water sending flickering lights up onto the tiled walls. The stands were empty, and Sherlock wasn’t to be seen. Moriarty placed a hand on the back of Jos neck, and waited in silence.

Only two minutes passed, and then the door at the other end of the pool swung open. Sherlock had dressed up for the occasion, wearing a deep purple shirt that highlighted the pallor of her skin and the darkness of her hair. She froze upon beholding Jo and Moriarty, fear and anger flicking swiftly across her face.

‘What is this?’ Sherlock asked, stepping forward.

‘Well you invited me out to play, and I thought, why not bring your dog along too? Can it do any good tricks?’

‘This isn’t about her,’ Sherlock snarled, with great impatience. ‘This was meant to be about us. Not about- playing and tricks-‘

Moriartys hand tightened briefly on Jos neck, and she smiled at Sherlock, just a small quirk of the lips. Sherlock gave no sign that she had seen it, her attention focused on Moriarty.

‘You’re younger than I expected too,’ Sherlock continued, an edge of disappointment in her voice. ‘You’re still starting out.’

 _‘Starting out?_ I’ve already surpassed idiots thrice my age.’

Sherlock shrugged, and Jo tried not to wince as his nails bit into her skin.

‘Besides,’ Moriarty continued, goaded by the silence, ‘I’ve at least avoided making the one big mistake you have.’

‘And that is?’

Moriarty pushed her violently, and Jo took five quick steps forward, making sure she seemed unsteady on her feet. She winked at Sherlock, very quickly, even as Moriarty continued to talk behind her.

‘…mind like yours lowering itself to the carnal level of her dykish, painfully ordinary existence, when you could have-‘

‘Could have what?’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘Could have you? But I don’t want you. You’re a boastful little man with big ideas and a bigger ego. To think I used to be excited by the name Moriarty! I thought there would be a puzzle. Not some jealous Irish kid with a superiority complex started back in school.’

‘I have this building surrounded,’ Moriarty said. ‘Don’t try to escape. I will be right back.’

He turned and stalked out the way he’d came. At once, Jo started to tug at the vest, wanting it as far away from her as possible. Sherlock rushed forward and helped, pulling it up over her arms and then sliding it across the floor.

‘He hasn’t really got us surrounded,’ Jo whispered. ‘Or I don’t think so, anyway. He only brought two guys with him. Did you bring the-?’

The door slammed open behind them and they leapt apart. Moriarty was now holding a gun. Jo moved to stand behind Sherlock, keeping her eyes on all the exits. At once, Sherlock reached around behind herself, pulling out Jos gun. It’d taken a few weeks for Jo to become comfortable teaching Sherlock how to use her old service gun, but now she was glad she had; Sherlocks hand was steady and her face sure.

‘How quaint,’ Sherlock said, scathing. ‘A good ol’ Western shoot up. Shall we take ten paces and then turn?’

‘If you insist,’ Moriarty counted, and then there was a sound Jo had only heard during her days in Afghanistan, and a light brighter than the sun. For a few moments she could feel nothing; only a strange pressure at the front of her body and an inexplicable wetness at the back.

When her sight returned, it seemed to be in UV; so bright had the explosion been that now everything was yellow, red, orange and pinkish purple, the colour of the flames burned onto her retinas and altering every other colour she saw. Furthermore, she was half underwater, and chunks of concrete sat at the bottom of the pool.

‘Sherlock?’

Jo couldn’t hear her own voice, though she was fairly sure she’d shouted at the top of her lungs.

‘Sherlock? Sherlock!’

She caught a glimpse of something purple through the dust that had settled on the water. Fear like nothing she had ever known gripped her, and without second thought Jo dived. Sherlock was floating a few centimetres from the bottom of the pool. Her shirt was ripped, her arm obviously broken, and her face bleeding. She looked almost peaceful, ethereal, floating like that, her hair making a shifting dark halo around her face. Jo took her by the shoulders, ignored the sharp ache in her wrist, and pulled.

There was almost nowhere clear for her to lay down Sherlock. Chunks of wood and concrete were everywhere, some of which were splattered with what had to be the insides of Moriarty. His thumb was less than a meter away.

Jo ignored the ringing in her ears, and the fact that she was now certain her wrist was broken. None of that mattered. Sherlocks own thin, beautiful body had saved her from the brunt of the explosion, and she was going to repay the favour. Jo took a deep breath, and placed her lips of Sherlocks, her hands beginning the compressions.

~

‘I have never regretted anything so much in my life,’ Sherlock declared, staring up the seventeen steps of 221b Baker Street. She’d broken her ankle as well as her arm, four ribs and collarbone. Now she was glaring up the steps, having apparently only just realised that she wouldn’t be able to get up and down them without assistance.

‘Well thats what you get for blowing up buildings,’ Jo said, paying the taxi driver and picking up their bags. It’d been a long hospital stay, and none of it had been fun or memorable.

‘It might not have been me,’ Sherlock pointed out for the millionth time. ‘It could have been faulty wiring. He might have shot it. Even a third party might have been involved.’

‘Yeah, the ghost of Carl Powers,’ Jo quipped, earning herself a frown. ‘Now stop sulking. It’ll probably take us ten minutes to get up these stairs, so we’d better start now.’

~

Jo knew Sherlock was working herself up to say or do something. Sometimes she would fall silent and star at Jo as if she were a total anomaly. At one point Jo had actually feared that the vacant look in Sherlocks face was thanks to brain damage, but now she wasn’t so sure. Ever since the pool, Sherlock had been frowning and gazing into the middle distance in a way that indicated she was becoming introspective and thoughtful.

Twice since arriving home, they had fucked, though both times had been slower (by necessity) and more tender (by desire) than previously. Sherlocks fingers had traced each individual scar with loving care, the pad of her thumb pressing into the hollows of Jos body, and then her hand slipping lower, brining forth kisses and inarticulate cries. It had been a slow night, unhurried, in which Jo had seen Sherlock give herself without expectation.

Jo was astounded by the fact that Sherlock seemed only to be growing more attractive; it seemed unfair that familiarity with her arching spine, responsive nipples, eloquent toes and pouting lips made them more desirable, and not less.

And still Sherlock looked at Jo, not only with the lust Jo had already identified, but with something altogether hotter and more volatile.

~

Jo was rotating her wrist in time with the violin, glad to find that it no longer hurt no matter which way she turned it. It was late at night, though neither of them were tired, and Sherlock had been playing for three hours straight.

Winter was approaching, and Jo had lit a fire previously, which sent a golden light over the room and crackled merrily, a peaceful background to the haunting song Sherlock was currently playing. More and more she’d been played lingering, emotional pieces.

This song drew to a close, and Jo wolf-whislted her appreciation, fully expecting Sherlock to launch into another song without pause. But she didn’t. She merely stood, facing out the window, the violin by her side and her face hidden from Jo.

‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’ Sherlock confessed, her voice low with slightly hoarse from hours of silence. ‘I can’t.’

‘Stop thinking about what?’

‘What you did!’ Sherlock said, turning to Jo and setting the violin aside. Jo was alarmed at the face of her; Sherlocks eyes were huge with pain and incomprehension, her lips pulled taught.

‘What did I do?’ Jo asked, alarmed, sitting up. ‘I didn’t do anything! Did I?’

Guilty, she racked her conscience, trying to work out what she’d done to cause such a dramatic change in Sherlock. Nothing sprang to mind, however. Sherlock was looking at her as if she had just expressed a desire to become a hippo.

‘Didn’t do anything?’ Sherlock repeated, softly. ‘You gave me- do you have any idea? So much. Everything you could, even, the air from your lungs, and how can I… how can I ever give you more?’

Jo replayed that in her mind a couple of times, trying to work out which parts made sense and which parts didn’t. Then it clicked. The pool. For a moment she was stunned that, of all things, this was what Sherlock had been worrying about. She’d assumed, from the intensity of the looks, that one of them had been dying of cancer.

‘You saved me first, though, with the battlefield,’ Jo pointed out.

‘Any high-stress situation would have done,’ Sherlock countered impatiently. ‘You gave me your own breath.’

‘You would have done the same for me.’

‘But I didn’t have the chance!’

‘Well, no offence, but I’m not going to get blown up again just to give you a shot at it. I know you would have. Thats all that matters.’

Sherlock bit her lip, her eyes darting over Jos body, as if trying to catch a lie in it. Exasperated, Jo reached for her, and pulled Sherlock on top of her until their bodies were entwined from feet to chest. With a sulky exhale, Sherlock buried her face in Jos neck, pressing a kiss against her skin.

‘I should be able to give you more.’

‘It’s not a competition!’

Sherlock didn’t reply, just wormed closer, pressing their breasts together. Jo ran soothing hands up and down her back, trying to find the words that would make Sherlock settle and drop the feeling of debt she obviously carried.

‘You silly duck,’ Jo said. ‘You stupid genius. If you want to give me something so bad, why don’t you just ask for what I want?’

‘I should be able to _deduce_ it-‘

‘Bullocks. Now ask me.’

Propping herself up on her hands and peering down at Jo with clear blue eyes and an expression of mingled expectation and worry, Sherlock said (not very romantically):

‘Spit it out then, what do you want, I can’t stand not knowing anymore.’

‘Well as you asked so nicely…’ Jo snorted. ‘You. Us. This strange life we have together. For as long as we can. Until we’re old and wrinkly. And dead.’

‘Oh.’

‘Think we could manage it?’

Sherlock pressed her lips against Jos, and slid her fingers up under Jos shirt, making her shiver. They were kissing as if they’d both been starved of touch for years, and had only just found each other. Part of Jo was pleased, knowing she was in for some very good sex. Another part of her was pleased; because this action spoke louder than words ever could have. _For as long as we can. Until we’re old and wrinkly. And dead._

Jo grinned into the kiss, closing her eyes to block out everything in the world that wasn’t Sherlock.


End file.
